


Dal Segno

by jusrecht



Category: Tiger & Bunny
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-21
Updated: 2011-10-21
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:20:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Barnaby is in pieces and Kotetsu might not be a good enough puzzle master to put him back together. (SPOILERS up to episode 20 but follows a different direction from there.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dal Segno

**Author's Note:**

> Seen entirely from Barnaby’s third POV. His current state of mind is the reason for the fragmented style, especially in the beginning. But don’t worry, the fic will become more, er, lucid as it progresses. Also, I’ve been working on this fic on and off for weeks since eps 20 came out, so there might be some inconsistencies in style.

“My name is Barnaby Brooks Jr. and I’m twenty-five years old.”

The words rang hollow, without substance or meaning; but it was a beginning.

 

•

 

His first lucid recollection in this jungle of sliced and chopped memories was of grey rain and grey roads.

There were people, faceless and colourless, spilling into the street from the mouths of tall, grey buildings, their paths interweaving and overlapping with each other’s. In his ears, the confused rhythm of many footsteps mingled with rain’s ceaseless drumming. Nothing was clear-edged, as if in a dream, and at the heart of this blurred mosaic, he walked slowly, placing one foot before the other. Under his boots, grey flagstones paved the crowded street.

He remembered nothing, until.

 _“Good night, Barna–”_

His mind rebelled, screeched, halted. Clenching fingers streaked mud in his hair, and he ended up face-first in a puddle of grey water, under the shroud of a grey, weeping sky.

 

•

 

Many times, he remembered standing in the dancing half-shadow painted by spreading flames, looking at a man with a gun.

In each and every one of them, it showed a different face.

 

•

 

A human’s mind was built somewhat like a library, endless branches and tangled mazes of books. One mind might be content to endure a cluttered existence while another desperately clung to perfect orderliness. Chaotic balance and balanced chaos—all the same in the most basic terms.

Memories, in turn, were the inked words between pages of the books, some faint and quick to wane, others as enduring as the earth. The old ones would be married to dust and neglect, the bad ones pushed to the backmost of the row, hidden so deep but nowhere near forgotten.

The most painful ones would be written with blood; crossed out, blotted, torn, all to no avail, for they would always remain.

 

•

 

There was only one cardinal rule. One should not rewrite the content of a book. One must not.

But if one did–

 

•

 

Cut. Paste. Delete.

 

•

 

He was running. Before his eyes, a sparkling beach bordered an endless ocean. He walked to the water’s edge, and sand that glinted silver greeted his bare feet, followed by the kiss of the sea. The hard, rugged texture of a seashell printed a curiously symmetrical pattern on the palm of his hand. He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath of salt-scented air.

He was hiding. Above his head, green stalks towered and braced heavy spreads of petals and seeds, golden under a brilliant summer sun. Footsteps approached and he pressed one hand hard against his mouth, determined not to make a sound. A cool breeze swayed the field of sunflowers, soft leaves caressing his cheeks and eyelids. He closed his eyes, and fought back a giggle.

He was gliding. Under his feet, smooth ice yielded progress to sharp, glinting blades. He laughed, the winter’s air cold and sharp in his nose, and waved at his chaperone. A parade of bright colours on the Christmas tree and a joyful song resounding in his ears completed the celebration. He closed his eyes, and hummed with the merry tune.

He was stumbling. All around him, there was only forest of thorns and breeding darkness. An ominous howl rent the heavy veil of silence, close enough for fear-choked tears to moisten his eyes. Past the thickness of the trees’ canopy, a black sky, speared by forks of lightning, began to weep in earnest. He closed his eyes, and prayed for help.

 

•

 

They were memories, half remembered, bits and pieces swirling inside his dreams—like many-coloured shards of different glasses trapped in the same Pandora’s Box.

Perhaps some of these had happened.

Perhaps none had.

 

•

 

He knew that he had never been to a beach.

Sometimes.

Other times he remembered the bluest water which had never been there.

(Cut. Paste. Delete.)

 

•

 

Finally, nothingness gave way to a dark ceiling of a nameless room and a face contorted in worry.

The face broke into a small, relieved smile. He blinked, dirt on his face and in his hair. There was a name he should have known. He looked inside his mind and grasped at the waving tendrils, but they slipped away, eluding his helpless fingers.

He surrendered to curiosity. “Who are you?” he asked, words floating in the half-light of an unbroken morning.

Before his eyes, the smile crumbled.

 

•

 

It came to him one hour later.

“Old man.” It felt right, sounded right, and a hint of warmth spread inside his chest. “Kotetsu-san.”

Then everything else followed, a deluge of faces, pictures, and words. In some dark, distant corner of his mind, a voice was saying, as gently as a songbird to its nestling, _“Good night, Barna–”_

He remembered lunging at Aunt Samantha’s murderer, screaming, delivering blows which were designed to kill—but maybe none of these had happened at all.

 

•

 

What _did_ happen was, Kotetsu found him a wreck of a man, his memory in pieces. Himself a fugitive running from justice, there was nothing he could do but bring Barnaby to the only person left who could still help them.

All these he would learn much, _much_ later; but the second time he opened his eyes, he only had enough faculties to ask, “Who am I?”

A sad, weary voice answered, “Your name is Barnaby Brooks Jr. and you are twenty-five years old.”

 

•

 

“My name is Barnaby Brooks Jr. and I’m twenty-five years old.”

In the wrecked ruin that was his mind, only these words stayed with him. They were his anchor, his only remaining link to reality.

Barnaby wondered why he could not feel grateful.

 

•

 

The second time he tried to kill Kaburagi T. Kotetsu, the older man managed to pin him down to the floor, twisting his arm behind his back. It took Barnaby nearly twenty seconds to stop struggling—and that only after another flash of memory hit him full-force with its incongruity. (Why would Aunt Samantha’s murderer stop him from falling, hold him from behind, when he tried to defeat his parents’ murderer?)

“I didn’t kill her.” The frustrated voice hissed in his ear. “You know me better than to believe that, Bunny.”

“Do I?” He was Barnaby, not Bunny, but he refused to be distracted by trivialities. “How do I know that you’re telling the truth?”

“Your name is Barnaby Brooks Jr. and you’re twenty-five years old. You became a hero to find your parents’ murderer. You thought– _we_ both thought that it was Jake Martinez, and six months have passed since you defeated him when he tried to take over the world. But three days ago, you discovered that he, in fact, was not the murderer.”

“That’s not true,” Barnaby said angrily. “It was him. I remember his face.”

“Do you?”

“I do,” he snapped, fingers clenching under the other man’s unrelenting hold. “Jake Martinez murdered my parents. Why are you doing this to me?”

The pressure was suddenly gone. Kaburagi rose to his knees only to sink against the side of the bed, pillows and blankets still strewn about in chaos. “Bunny,” he spoke slowly, his voice thick with pain, “he was not the murderer. We both made sure of that.”

Barnaby gritted his teeth. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” came the challenge, and there was a hard glint in Kaburagi’s eyes. “You yourself said that the murderer had an Ouroboros tattoo on the back of his right hand. We checked the footage from Jake’s broadcast. He didn’t have one.”

“He…” Barnaby shook his head, desperate, confusion creeping in. “That couldn’t be– he was– I don’t–”

(Somewhere in the back of his mind, in the periphery of truth, a voice was saying: _Good night, Barna–_ )

“Shh.” A hand touched his shoulder, a familiar presence, somehow. “It’s okay. No need to rush. We’ll take this slowly.”

Once, there had been boundaries, precisions, definitions. Now he was half a man, limping blindly with neither reason nor purpose. No past. No future.

“What’s happening?” Barnaby—maybe his name was Barnaby after all—demanded weakly.

The hand squeezed his shoulder gently. “I don’t know. But we need to talk. I need to know what happened to you, and you need to hear my side of the story.”

He almost laughed. “I don’t even remember what happened to me.”

“You will.” Kaburagi’s voice was quiet, resolute, and its strength was a new anchor. “We’ll do everything to make you remember. And you _will_ remember, I promise you that.”

 

•

 

There was something to be said about waking up in the morning to an unfamiliar ceiling in an unfamiliar room and knowing neither your name nor your age.

Repeatedly.

“Who are you?” he asked the stranger sleeping next to him.

 

•

 

Their room was a small one. A thin sheet of glass and brown plastic blinds separated them from the rest of the world. There was only one bed, not big enough, but a fugitive and a missing person with neither past nor future had no privilege of choosing.

These all belonged to an apartment, which in turn belonged to a dark man of middle age and medium height. Once, Kotetsu had introduced him as Ben Jackson, but Barnaby never addressed him by that name. (The introduction might never have happened at all.) The man had been the beginning of Wild Tiger years and years ago, but now he earned his living as a taxi driver. (Maybe). Despite the risks and difficulties they were exposing him to, he gave them a room and accepted their presence as a matter of fact.

This was the first thing which stirred Barnaby’s dormant sense of gratitude.

“My name is Barnaby Brooks Jr.,” he told his saviour, shaking his hands, “and I’m twenty-five years old.”

He could not explain the look of pity in the other man’s eyes, but it shamed him, and his gaze sought refuge in blank walls and blank colours—just like the inside of his head.

 

•

 

Every morning was a repeat of the same story. He began with the sentence, as if it was a password to unlock a trove of memories. It never worked, but it was still a beginning.

“I think it’s like a reset every time you fall asleep,” Kotetsu told him; under his squinting eyes there was a bruise that—Barnaby could not help but notice—would probably match the one darkening his own knuckles. He did not remember attacking the other man, but deductive powers had nothing to do with memory. “You remembered bits and pieces last night,” Kotetsu continued. “They were all a jumble of mess, but at least you remembered. Then you fell asleep and when you woke up this morning, we’re back to square one.”

Barnaby continued staring at the ugly bruise. “That was me, wasn’t it?”

Kotetsu suddenly grinned, brilliant and blinding. “For someone who’s always kicking and kicking, you got one hell of a right hook.”

Mortified and frustrated, Barnaby looked down at his smarting fingers. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the reply was light, unbelievably so. “I’ve been dealt worse many, many times, even by my own wife.”

 _Who is dead,_ Barnaby thought, and then marvelled at the unexpected thread of memory. He began to remember—bits and pieces, _a jumble of mess_ as Kotetsu had said. But night would come, and then–

“So my memories basically reset themselves every time I go to sleep,” he reiterated.

“Who knows?” Kotetsu shrugged. “That’s just my half-assed conclusion. This whole thing is crazy.”

“Then I won’t sleep,” Barnaby decided.

 

•

 

He managed for three days and twenty-one hours, until his body gave way.

“It’s alright,” he heard a voice murmuring before his mind returned to state zero. “I’m here.”

(He would forget it once sleep overcame him, but one day, perhaps, he would remember.)

 

•

 

Mr Maverick was a kind man who always smiled.

Mr Maverick was a cold man who never spoke to him.

Mr Maverick was a good man who took care of him after his parents’ death.

Mr Maverick was a strange man who watched him with a pair of hungry eyes.

Mr Maverick was a wise man who taught him patience and perseverance.

Mr Maverick was a cruel man who told him to get on all fours–

 

•

 

Sanity, he discovered, was a thin sheet of glass. Too much knowledge or too little knowledge could fracture it easily, each a different end of the same two-edged knife. And the flaw would grow, like cracks spiderwebbing over ice. The trick was to stand at the isthmus, to maintain the balance of knowing and not knowing.

Ouroboros destroyed that standard for him.

“I must know,” he pleaded to himself, to the deafness of his mist-girdled mind. “I must know.”

 

•

 

“You have a daughter.”

A hint of a smile outlined the curve of Kotetsu’s lips. “You remember her?”

“Maybe.” Barnaby frowned in concentration, struggling to assemble the delicate shards of his memory, of a blushing face and a skating rink under a downpour of splintered glass and crashing beams. “I think so.”

“That’s good. She’s your fan, you know.”

“Yes.” He could see her now—a pony tail, a skating outfit of black and pink, a tremulous smile. Somewhere in the vicinity, there was an achingly familiar white-green presence, strangely subdued for once. Wild Tiger. His partner. Kotetsu.

A sudden tendril of thought slinked in, a snake that coiled and bred a sour taste in his mouth. Barnaby looked up, eyes narrowed, and demanded, “Why aren’t you with her?”

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Kotetsu replied dryly, “I’m a wanted murderer.”

“You said you didn’t kill Aunt Samantha.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then why aren’t you with her?”

“Because,” Kotetsu said impatiently, “she’s safer as she is. No one knows where my family lives. And I’m not leaving you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Barnaby declared, almost angry. “What kind of parent are you? She’s your one and only daughter. She needs you more than you can imagine.”

“And I will be there for her once I can figure out a way to walk out of this place without being recognised as the crazy NEXT who murdered a defenceless old woman!” The older man’s voice rose to a pitch mirroring his vehemence. “My daughter has no use of a dead father.”

“Some consolation, that—for a daughter whose father is never there.”

Kotetsu’s eyes slitted, suddenly hard and cold. “Don’t make me hit you, Bunny.”

Barnaby took in a deep, trembling breath. “If you’re thinking about me,” he managed to grit out through the whirlwind roaring inside his head, “just… don’t. I’m not more important than your own daughter.”

“Damn right you aren’t,” Kotetsu growled. “But you are not less important either, so just shut up and let me think of a way out of this fucking mess.”

“Maybe you’re looking in the wrong place,” Barnaby snapped, surrender the farthest thing in his mind. “There are times when you just have to choose. Even _you_ can’t save everyone.”

“Yeah? Try me.”

They stood glaring at each other, in this room much too small for the two of them. As the strained silence lengthened, Barnaby could not help but notice a growing sense of familiarity. They had been at such an impasse, for too many times to count, and there was strange comfort in the thought—almost, as if he had discovered a thread to his past at last.

He was the first to look away, and that only because Kotetsu’s eyes burned such golden brightness which could only mean plain madness or a sink-or-swim determination. Either was an enemy he would rather not face right now.

“You’ll regret it,” he muttered, quiet enough to make it a threat. _And when you do,_ he did not add, _you’re going to blame me._

“Nothing will happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Look,” Kotetsu’s voice gained a knife-sharp edge, “just drop it, okay? I’m not leaving you until you get better and that’s that.”

“I will never get better,” Barnaby hissed, a vow full of venom—even though he tried so hard not to believe it.

The next morning, he opened his eyes and said, “Who are you?”

 

•

 

Some memories were stronger, but sometimes everything bled into each other and all he had was a wash of spreading colours on wrinkled paper, all blurred and smudged. It was not unlike drowning, and he swam against the thick, swirling current, gasping and grasping for an anchor.

Then he woke up, remembering nothing, but always to the same face every morning.

(And)

 

•

 

A hand was draped across his wrist. A light snoring sound filled his ears. His memory was one empty slate, but even then, he knew he was not supposed to wake up like this.

There was a piece of paper balled in the fist of his left hand. In the morning light, the lined surface yielded its secret, written in his handwriting, the rounded, uneven script of his childhood:

“My name is Barnaby Brooks Jr. and I’m twenty-five years old.”

The words rolled around his tongue. They meant nothing.

(But)

 

•

 

It was the same face.

Over and over again.

 

•

 

“Who is Kaburagi Kaede?”

“Your daughter.”

“Who is Keith Goodman?”

“Sky High.”

“Who is Blue Rose?”

“Karina Lyle.”

“Who is Ben Jackson?”

“The man who helped us. Your friend.”

“Who is Albert Maverick?”

“…a man who is like a surrogate father to me.”

 

•

 

Barnaby Brooks Jr. died two days later.

Pictures of the fallen hero filled every news slot in both television and newspaper, and the story of his epic (if not exactly witnessed) battle was vividly recited by legions of dramatic newscasters, over and over again. For one entire week, Sternbild hummed with loss, submerged in the subdued echoes of mourning.

The first time Barnaby read about it, it was in the front page of _The Sternbild Times_. A blown-up picture of him took up nearly the entire space, and the passage which followed down to the next page was wreathed in praises, in fictitious heroic deeds and empty condolences of practised wordsmiths.

His first thought was: how many people had the experience of reading their own obituaries? Memories intact or not, Barnaby was sure that he was among the privileged few.

“Barnaby Brooks Jr.,” Kotetsu leant over his shoulder and started reading out loud, “who died due to complications after his valiant clash with the dangerous fugitive, Kaburagi T. Kote– what the hell is this??”

“Everyone loves a good tragic story,” Ben Jackson answered matter-of-factly and switched the television on. They both watched, Kotetsu with his mouth hanging open, as a face they knew so well announced the death of Apollon Media’s prized hero. Alexander Lloyds looked anything but the successful businessman they had been working with for the last nine months. His voice was subdued as he imparted news of Wild Tiger’s critical condition due to injuries he had received in order to help his partner.

“I was _what_?” Kotetsu echoed, dumbstruck.

Barnaby did not, could not, respond. The face which stared back at him from the television was a stranger’s—wearing his face, true, but the idea that once he could have ever worn so utterly false a smile was nauseating.

“It’s a smart move,” Ben spoke again, looking straight at him in the eye for the first time ever. “Now if you come forward, Apollon Media can simply claim that you’re an impostor.”

“I am not an impostor,” he retorted, with as much confidence as he could muster; but now that Barnaby Brooks Jr. was, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world, he could not help but wonder _who_ he was. “There are still ways to prove who I am,” he added, partly to convince himself.

“Maybe.” Ben watched him with dark, solemn eyes. “But to what end?”

The question caught Barnaby off guard. “I…” he faltered, unsure, lost, “I don’t know.”

“Then find out. If you really mean to confront them, then you will have to be sure. Half-hearted efforts will only get you killed.”

Ben had left before Barnaby could heed the flash of irritation which had suddenly risen at those words. His fingers, he noticed when he looked down, had torn at the paper, right through the middle of his fake, fake smile.

“He didn’t mean anything by that,” Kotetsu said quietly. “Just a friendly caution. We don’t know what we’re facing here, or why you were announced dead, not missing.”

“I know.” But he did not meet his partner’s gaze. Another newscaster had appeared, a beautiful woman with short blond hair and a sympathetic voice, the glint on her glasses a reminder of something painful he could not remember. She announced, melodious voice easing into strings of words, the city’s plan for a funeral procession for their beloved hero, the day after tomorrow. For a moment, Barnaby entertained the thought of showing up just for the sake of it. There was no point, but his life had ceased to have any point since he had woken up without his name.

“So they said we killed each other.” His partner’s voice was grave, laced with bitterness. “That’s almost funny for a joke.”

“We both know better.”

Kotetsu raised an eyebrow. “Do we?”

“Yes.” Barnaby looked up, locking their eyes together. “You will never hurt me. If there is anything of which I am sure—anything at all—then that is it.”

Kotetsu did not speak for a long time. There was a curiously vulnerable expression on his face that Barnaby could probably name but would not. For some reasons, it terrified the hell out of him.

“I’m touched, Bunny,” he said at last, with a flicker of a smile.

Barnaby only shrugged, as if it did not matter. (The truth was, he could not find the words.)

Wild Tiger was announced dead the day after.

Kaburagi T. Kotetsu was still a fugitive.

 

•

 

There were times when he almost remembered.

He was down on the floor, soft, downy carpet under his knees. His eyes were warm, his cheeks wet, and he felt as if he had just been punched in the chest. The scent of Darjeeling lingered in the air, mingling with the impression of betrayal as a pair of blue-ringed eyes watched him. A gentle voice drifted just above his consciousness and a hand caressed his head, even gentler.

Blackness threatened, then consumed.

When he woke up, throat dry and muscles taut, there were hands restraining him, holding him down against the bed. A man with blue-ringed eyes hovered above his shackled body, and all he could think of was that his nightmare had come true.

 

•

 

It had not. The warm wetness spreading across his hands diffused the mist from his eyes and brought him back to reality.

The night still wore its shadowy darkness. In the dim half-light of a blinking bulb, Barnaby saw him, sitting on the floor, eyes no longer glowing blue. He had one hand pressed against a bleeding left arm, a world of pain written across his face.

But none of these made any sense. Barnaby stared, still breathing hard, at the man he should have known.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Nothing.” It pained him to see half a smile, half a grimace on so familiar a face, and could not remember anything to give it name. “Glad to see you’re back, Bunny.”

It jarred, the last spoken word that tickled his ears. Barnaby looked down, at his lap, and found that his fingers were slippery but rigid around the plastic hilt of a knife. Both were drenched with blood, the same metallic redness which bred so unpleasant a scent in his nose—and a world of understandings shattered upon him.

“Did I–”

“Your name,” the older man interrupted, the deep lines across his brow a brace against disappointment. “Do you remember your name?”

“My name is Barnaby Brooks Jr.,” each word fell from his lips, effortless, “and I’m twenty-five years old.”

A sad, little smile answered his mechanical speech. “Yes,” Kotetsu said, “that’s who you are.”

 

•

 

Another time, he woke up with wisps of nightmare still coiling about him, their tableaus unremembered but not unfelt. His fingertips found the headboard of his bed, tracing scarred wood and telltale half-moons. He opened his eyes and watched darkness disperse, into the face of the man sleeping next to him.

The usual mantra echoed in his head _(my name is Barnaby Brooks Jr.)_ but there was no need for that, not yet, for he still remembered some things—just barely.

“Kotetsu-san,” he said, clinging to that one name as it cut a swath across a pathless ocean, “please kiss me.”

 

•

 

Sometimes Kotetsu did.

Sometimes Kotetsu did not.

Sometimes he did not ask at all.

Sometimes none of these ever happened.

(He woke up the same every morning; perhaps a little better, perhaps a little worse, but ever the same.)

 

•

 

“How did I forget about you?”

Kotetsu turned away from the television, regarding him with raised brows and puzzled eyes. “I thought you said you didn’t remember anything about it.”

“No, I mean,” Barnaby inhaled sharply, juggling painful words, “how did _I_ forget about _you_?”

Kotetsu’s eyes widened and a frown darkened his countenance. “Oh, no, you’re not going to beat yourself up over this. The blame is nowhere near you, so don’t even _think_ about it.”

“But it was my memory.”

“And something happened. That much I could gather from your ramblings.”

“But the memory was _mine_ ,” Barnaby insisted, stubbornness flaring. “Was it really that weak that someone else could simply erase it from my mind? Or were you so easily forgettable that–”

“Bunny,” Kotetsu suddenly sounded tired, “please don’t do this.”

It shut him up, but not for long. Barnaby looked down at his clenched fists, angry and miserable both. “I shouldn’t have forgotten.”

“Look, the choice was never yours in the first place. I know you would never choose to forget me, so don’t carry that guilt around.” When it became obvious that he would receive no answer, Kotetsu sighed, but the warmth of his hand on Barnaby’s shoulder announced that he was far from giving up. “Let’s just see this from the brighter side. Whatever happened, you’re starting to remember now. It means you didn’t entirely forget.”

“Only because you wouldn’t give up on me.”

“My efforts wouldn’t have mattered if you remembered absolutely nothing. But you do. The memory is still inside you somewhere. _I_ am still inside you.”

Barnaby whipped his head up, meeting Kotetsu’s equally shocked gaze. “That…” he said slowly, heat rising to his cheeks, “actually sounds weird.”

“Right,” his partner muttered, looking extremely uncomfortable. “Okay. Bad choice of words. Sorry.”

Barnaby snorted, a smile quivering on his lips. It was, he would remember later, the first time he had stood at the edge of a laugh, after a long, dreary winter.

 

•

 

“For you.”

Barnaby did not blink when his hands automatically rose to catch the plastic bag Ben had tossed at him. He stared at it, unsure. “For me?”

Ben nodded at Kotetsu’s direction. “At his request.”

Inside the bag were a new notebook and two pens, one black, the other blue. “It’s just a small idea of mine,” Kotetsu was saying from his perch at the pantry. “You’re getting better by day, so I thought you could write down everything you had remembered so far. Just in case. Besides, you would trust your own handwriting, right?”

It took Barnaby a while to find his voice. “Thank you,” he said at last.

(Secretly, he wondered if the book weighed more than his brain.)

 

•

 

His first entry was: _My name is Barnaby Brooks Jr. and I’m twenty-five years old._

And his second one was: _My partner is Wild Tiger, Kaburagi T. Kotetsu. He’s the only one I have in this world._

 

•

 

That night, Barnaby opened his eyes to the sound of Kotetsu’s broken moan, his daughter’s name dying on his lips.

In the darkness, he blinked himself to wakefulness, but his partner did not notice. Barnaby remained still, watching as Kotetsu shifted, the rustles of fabric against skin almost too loud in the dearth of any other sound, to sit at the edge of the bed.

Silence returned. Kotetsu breathed in sharply, once, but the rest of his sobs were soundless.

Cheek pressed against too-warm pillow, Barnaby watched each tremor that wrecked those shoulders and was reminded, painfully, that he was not the only one with demons. And yet, most likely he would forget this on the morrow. Kotetsu would smile and pretend that he had never cried.

It was now or never.

He rose, as quietly as possible, and touched his partner’s shoulder. “Kotetsu-san.”

There was a gasp, then an embarrassed laugh, followed by vigorous rubbing of sleeves against eyes. When Kotetsu finally turned to face him, he was wearing a weak smile. “Sorry. Did I wake you up?”

“You should go to her,” Barnaby told him, ignoring the apology. “I will be alright. I’m much better now.”

Kotetsu frowned. “We’ve had this discussion before.”

“You’re worried about her.”

“She’s safer without me.”

“And you honestly believe that?” At Kotetsu’s silence, he continued. “Please don’t do this for me. You’ve done so much, but this one kindness… it’s too heavy. I can’t take it.”

“I’m still giving it whether you will take it or not,” the older man said stubbornly. “It’s mine to give.”

Barnaby closed his eyes for a moment, drawing in a shaky breath. “Don’t you want to see her?”

“More than anything in the world.”

“Fine,” he decided, “then we will go together.”

Kotetsu’s eyes widened, brightened by surprise. “You will go with me?”

“What kind of question is that?” Barnaby asked stiffly.

“No, what I meant was,” Kotetsu exhaled noisily and ran a guilty hand through the sleep-mussed shock of his hair, “it’s dangerous. From here, it takes a few hours to reach my hometown— _by car_ , and we can’t exactly go with that option right now. And for all we know, they’re out there still looking for you. You’re supposed to be dead.”

Barnaby felt a scowl gathering on his brow. “I’m your partner, right?”

“But you don’t have to do this only because–”

“Look into the mirror, please.”

A ghost of a smile flashed across Kotetsu’s face. “Point taken,” he acceded with a cough that could almost be mistaken as a chuckle, then added, more softly, “Thank you, Bunny.”

Barnaby looked away, suddenly unable to meet his partner’s eyes. “If I forget about this tomorrow…” he trailed off, throat constricting around the last word.

“You won’t,” Kotetsu vowed, and pressed the back of Barnaby’s hand against his lips. “I promise. You won’t.”

 

•

 

It was almost, _almost_ a mistake.

For the chase began almost as soon as they stepped out of the door and haunted their steps all the way. They reached the quaint little town which was their destination only after fifty hours of running and hiding and dodging bullets—and still brought black-suited shadows on their heels, each with enough homicidal intent to kill the entire populace, ten times over.

But none of those mattered, not when he saw the look on Kaede’s face, or when he lifted her into his arms (just as he had a lifetime ago) as those tailing shadows gained on them once more. She was light, mere weight of fear and tears, but for the moment her scream was a proof that she was alive, and that was enough.

Until her eyes widened, at something she glimpsed behind his back—and then suddenly it was her turn to save him, to push him out of harm’s way as another gunshot ripped the night’s suffocating air. She glowed blue, and her grip on his arm was as strong as his on hers.

Barnaby would have smiled and laughed his appreciation, had he had the opportunity. He did not; not until half-an-hour later, when they had shaken off their pursuers once more, he and Kaede, Kotetsu and his mother. But by then, Kaede had jumped off from his arms for those of her father’s.

“I knew it,” she managed to say amidst her tears, arms locked tight around Kotetsu’s neck. “I knew you would come for me.”

“Always,” he heard his partner whisper, all the love and affection in the world condensed in that one little word.

 

•

 

The house was still the same.

Barnaby walked the dim, dust-smothered corridors and welcomed the ghosts of memories. They were ample here, breeding in the stagnant air, untouched by change. The last time he had been here, if he remembered correctly, had been on his fourth birthday. To celebrate the occasion, his parents had taken some time off from work, and the three of them had spent a glorious weekend in this place.

Six months later, his parents were dead. (Or so his notebook said.)

Barnaby firmly put the thought out of his mind and concentrated on his task. The house was, concisely put, too _big_ for the five of them, even with Kotetsu’s elder brother thrown into the mix. However, it was their only option, and for a fugitive and a dead man, any option at all would be a blessing.

It had been a beautiful house, hiding beautiful memories behind its white walls and once-gleaming wainscots. The size could perhaps be attributed to the comparable enormity of his grandfather’s ego, whose majestic portrait glowered at him from its lofty throne in the second-floor’s library. Barnaby wondered if he had ever known the old man. Perhaps not.

He scribbled a few lines on the notebook which was now his constant companion, and then headed to the front hall, where his partner was struggling with a broom and a duster.

“I can really use some help here,” Kotetsu grumbled as he approached. “Cleaning twenty years worth of dust isn’t exactly a piece of cake.”

“I’ve just finished looking around,” Barnaby told him. “There were eleven bedrooms in total, not counting the ones for the servants. I think it’s best if we take those located in the same wing, so we can start with them first.”

Kotetsu’s jaw dropped. “We’ll have to spend at least half a year to clean the entire house. With an army. Seriously, why would anyone want a house this big?”

Barnaby could not help a smile. “I wonder at that too. My mother didn’t have any brother or sister, so there was really no point of building a house of this size. I suppose it was only one of my grandfather’s personal ambitions.”

“Bunny, there’s a freakin’ _lake_ at the back of the house.”

“It’s very pleasant to be here at summer, I believe,” he said mildly.

“You rich people.” Kotetsu shook his head in disbelief, a helpless grin blooming. “So it belonged to your mother’s family?”

“Yes. We used to escape the city’s summer heat and spend the holiday here. I think.”

For a moment, Kotetsu looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Bunny, are you really sure we can–?”

“Kotetsu-san,” Barnaby interrupted with a frown, “I’m going to let you deal with this part of the house alone if you finish that sentence.”

“But–”

“I’m not joking.”

“Fine.” A smile quivered on Kotetsu’s lips. “Brat.”

Barnaby hid his own triumphant smile. Convincing Kotetsu, he remembered, had been a matter of pushing all the right buttons.  
 _  
No one lives there. It has been shut up for years, so the condition is probably not good. But it’s a place._

 _Are you sure it’ll be alright?_

 _I have money too, if that is your concern. The bulk of my parents’ wealth–_

 _Bunny. A scowl. You know that wasn’t what I meant._

 _Then what did you mean?_

 _Look, I don’t like taking advantage of your kindness like this._

 _Kotetsu-san—he was the one frowning now—at the moment your family is the priority. Are you saying that you will not allow me to help only because your pride is in the way?”_

 _Of course not!_

 _So?_

 _Fine. A weak smile. Fine. You won._

 _Good.  
_  
And he was, Barnaby had to admit as he went in search of a second duster, indeed rather good at it.

 

•

 

The Kaburagi family conference was held on the second night.

Barnaby absented himself from the kitchen as soon as dinner was over and wandered in the overgrown garden. He would have preferred the library, but they had not touched the second floor yet. Kotetsu had been right. They would need an army to clean the entire house.

When he returned one hour later, the kitchen door stood half-ajar in silent invitation. Barnaby stopped despite himself when he caught his partner’s voice, curiosity burning too brightly for him to walk away. Only Kotetsu and his mother still remained, speaking quietly before the sink.

“What do you intend to do now?” he heard her soft, sombre voice.

“I don’t know.” Kotetsu had his back turned toward the door, but the firm set of his shoulders was clear enough for Barnaby to read. “But I’m going to protect you. All of you. That I swear.”

“And him, right?”

Barnaby blinked in surprise. Her eyes, old and wise and a touch accusing, glanced at his direction, penetrating the shadow he was hiding in.

“Look, Mum…”

“It’s your life,” she told her son solemnly, “and this is the path you have chosen. I will not let you regret it, do you hear me?”

Even without seeing his face, Barnaby could tell that his partner was smiling. “Yes. And thank you.”

He left before Kotetsu could notice his presence, heart weighed down by something he dared not name.

 

•

 

There were times when he could not remember his own mother. Once, there had been a face which looked so much like his, with a gentle smile and the fragrance of lilies in bloom.

In its place now was a heap of charred flesh, a skull’s bloodcurdling grin, and the smell of fire and decay. Every time he visited that scene of purgatory, Barnaby could not help but wonder if he still looked like her, even now.

Thankfully, none of those morbid thoughts had ever followed him into dawn’s quiet break

 

•

 

“My name is Barnaby Brooks Jr. and I’m twenty-five years old.”

“You actually turn twenty-six today.”

Barnaby opened his eyes to a new morning, soft hues and softer sounds. A familiar face looked down at him, wearing a smile subdued enough to spell apprehension, but warm enough to encompass love.

A name stirred in the labyrinthine depth of his mind. His hand rose, seeking warmth, finding its source in a dimpled cheek and a bearded chin.

“Kotetsu-san,” he dug it out, letter by letter, savouring the taste of remembrance on his tongue. He knew it was the right one.

In the slanting sunlight, his partner grinned, such a beautiful sight that made his heartbeat falter. “Bingo.”

It was that smile which unlocked the last of his forgotten doors.

 

•

 

 _“Good night, Barnaby.”_

Mr Maverick smiled down at him, an eerily paternal figure wreathed in predatory smiles.

The last door opened, and Barnaby looked inside.

 

•

 

Daylight had faded into a silent, creeping night when he finally put his pen down. His back ached from maintaining the same position before the desk for close to six hours and his hand was now numb after being subjected to constant hard work for that exact length of time. Tears had come and gone, their cold, dried traces by now an unpleasantly familiar presence on his cheeks.

Dark and silent, the bedroom he shared with his partner offered no comfort at all.

Barnaby barely noticed any of these. He reread the entry he had just written—all thirty-nine pages of it—under a patch of barely sufficient light spilling in through the glass window. One name he reiterated over and over again in his mind, like the desperate prayer of a dying man. Mr Maverick. Albert Maverick. That bastard Maverick.

He must not, he _will not_ , allow himself to forget again.

A train of soft, hesitant knocks coming from the door broke through his reverie. “Bunny,” Kotetsu’s anxious voice floated into the room, “can I come in?”

The impulse to run came so suddenly and infused so much dormant strength into his limbs that he stood stock-still, heart beating furiously against his ribcage for what seemed like an eternity—until a second train of knocks snuffed it out just as quickly. Barnaby took a deep breath, and realised that he was trembling all over. The book had fallen from his hand, white pages bared, covered in lean, fine-tipped writing born out of his hand. One name caught his eyes amidst that profusion of words, one that gave him hope, the one now standing outside the door.

He bent down to retrieve the book, taking what comfort he could in the surety of its shape and his knowledge of its content before heading toward the door. Some things were too important to be kept alone.

“Finally.” Kotetsu greeted him with a weak smile, his face was suffused with relief when Barnaby opened the door. “You’ve been in there the whole day. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” was his automatic reply. He took one pace back, allowing his partner to step inside, and reached for the lamp switch to pour some light into the room.

Kotetsu glanced at the book clutched between Barnaby’s fingers. “You remembered something new?”

“You can say that.”

Kotetsu’s eyes softened. “If you want to talk about it, I’m always here, okay?”

Barnaby shot him a faint smile. “I know.”

“Good. Now let’s get you something to eat. You haven’t had anything all day. And by the way, your birthday cake is already waiting downstairs.”

Kotetsu was moving toward the door, rambling about sugar powder, flower petals, and Kaede’s artistic streak. Barnaby realised that it was now or never. “Kotetsu-san,” he called out, rather surprised at how steady his voice actually sounded. “Will you sit down for a moment? I have something to tell you.”

The look on Kotetsu’s face was one lined with surprise and wariness, but he complied, toeing his shoes off to sit cross-legged on the bed. Barnaby consciously remained on his feet.

“There is one memory,” he began, words stumbling over each other in his hurry to get them over with, “there is one memory I have been—I _had_ been trying to remember for so long, and it finally came to me this afternoon. It’s about what happened in Mr Maverick’s office, on that day we fought.” His fingers gripped the notebook’s spine tighter. “I have written everything in here. Now I want you to know.”

Barnaby took one deep, trembling breath. “The murderer of my parents was Albert Maverick,” he declared quietly, meeting Kotetsu’s shocked gaze. “He is a NEXT who has the power to manipulate people’s memories. He is also tied to the Ouroboros, which most likely explains why my investigations so far have always met dead ends.”

“Maverick?” his partner repeated in a strangled voice. Barnaby only nodded. It had been bad enough to write it down, but to speak the name out loud was another matter entirely—as if to give it voice was to make it a reality, while in fact it _had_ been a reality all along. His reality.

He had been damaged, violated in the worst way possible—his memories, his mind, the inner sanctum of his _self_.

“How could I be so stupid?”

Barnaby started at his partner’s whispered question. “You suspected him?”

Kotetsu grimaced. “Not exactly, but everything makes so much sense now. I should’ve been able to see it.”

“It wasn’t your fault. He hid behind a very good mask—and he was my guardian to boot. No one could have suspected him.”

“It doesn’t matter.” A scowl appeared on Kotetsu’s face. “I should’ve known. It was him who made you like this.”

“Yes,” Barnaby managed to say past the lump in his throat. “And it was him I saw in the house, standing over my parents’ dead bodies. Then he modified my memory and I just forgot about it all.”

The hands which suddenly gripped his elbows were gentle but firm. “That, Bunny, is not your fault. You said it yourself. He was a NEXT—and you were _four_ years old.”

Barnaby shrugged, the movement thick with pain. “It’s not an excuse.”

“Give yourself a break, damn it.”

“What? Should I be thankful that at least he didn’t kill me?”

 _Why didn’t he?_

Barnaby could read the unvoiced question in his partner’s eyes. Clenching his teeth, he looked away, all too aware that it was a question he would have to answer one day. But he would not go there—not yet.

Kotetsu’s hands fell away, a sign of rare surrender. “What happened that day?” he asked at last.

“I told him about what Kriem had said.” It was almost too easy now, to cast his mind back to the day in question, as if to remember had not cost him a trip to hell and back. “Then Aunt Samantha called and mentioned the Christmas photo. When I confronted him about it, he simply admitted everything.”

“Because he could erase it all over again.”

“Yes.”

“God, Bunny.”

“I think he must have enjoyed doing that.” Barnaby carefully kept his voice even, his eyes away from Kotetsu’s piercing gaze. “Anyway, the next time I woke up, it was in his villa and I remembered nothing about what had happened. Some time after that, you called him.”

“You were there?”

“Yes, but he said it was nothing of importance. Then everything went blank. He must have used his power on me.”

“Used his power _again_ , you mean,” Kotetsu growled, and there was so much anger writ in the stiff set of his jaw, in the thin curve of his lips that Barnaby found himself unable to breathe for a moment. “Maybe that’s why you’re like this. Your mind simply couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Maybe,” he conceded feebly. “Or maybe it was the memories he was trying to tamper with.”

Kotetsu’s gaze softened a little. “The ones about Samantha-san?”

“No.” Barnaby looked down, his eyes tracing sharp cheekbones and pointed chin where his fingers longed to walk. “The ones about _you_. He wanted me to forget you. The problem was, you were the one I would never forget, the only one I would never allow myself to forget. You were the—you are still the person that matters to me the most. I think that’s why my mind went to pieces.”

Kotetsu was silent for a long time, wearing a look which might have been born out of delight’s womb, sired by surprise, were it not for the incredible intensity of his gaze. He opened his mouth only to close it again, and yet everything was eloquently written in the span between one ear and the other. He had never been a man difficult to read.

“I want to do something.” Barnaby inhaled deeply, steadying himself. “He must be stopped. It’s not just about my revenge anymore. What he did was– _is_ wrong.”

“I agree.” Kotetsu finally nodded, his voice only a shade thinner than usual. “So what are we going to do?”

It took everything in Barnaby’s power not to give into hope. “Kotetsu-san, you really should consider the safety of your family.”

“I do, and I have them now with me.”

“If you put yourself in danger–”

“And that, by the way, includes you,” Kotetsu continued, cutting into his speech firmly. “You’re my partner, the one I would trust with my life, so of course you’re my family. And I will do anything for my family, is that clear?”

 

(Somewhere between now and then, there were twenty years of being alone. The pages of his book were filled with solitary meanderings and endless search of a murderer whose face he could not even remember. Tears were his only friends, hatred his only lover, and even his own parents were reduced to fragments of genuine-but-not memories.)

 

Barnaby knew that he should say something in return, but could not—not until he crumbled in Kotetsu’s arms, his face pressed against a warm shoulder, and all he could manage was a pair of tremulous, breathless words.

“Thank you.”

“Idiot,” Kotetsu murmured against his hair, and for the first time in a very long time, Barnaby felt his feet landing on solid ground.

 

•

 

“Who is Keith Goodman?”

“Sky High.”

“Who is Blue Rose?”

“Karina Lyle.”

“Who is Kaburagi Kaede?”

“The most beautiful girl in the world.”

“Damn right. Who is Albert Maverick?”

“The man who murdered my parents.”

 

•

 

There were mornings when he remembered everything and there were mornings when he did not, but there was not one morning when he did not wake up to the presence of another; for his memories, imperfect as they were, had been rebuilt by two hands instead of one.

Piece.

By.

Piece.

And as he opened his eyes to see the face he had gone to hell to remember, Barnaby knew that he would die before he let this man go.

 

•

 

“My name is Barnaby Brooks Jr. and I’m twenty-six years old.”

“I’m Kaburagi T. Kotetsu,” came the answer, close enough to make a difference in the morning’s hush, “and I’m _here_.”

 

  
**  
_The End_   
**

 

\---


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